


Lazy Mornings

by Sparks_And_Ink



Series: Sterek Stuff [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale Loves Stiles Stilinski, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Insight, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Morning Cuddles, No Dialogue, POV First Person, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Sleep, Stiles Stilinski Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Stiles Stilinski Loves Derek Hale, Supportive Derek Hale, This Is Sad, but it won a writing contest with a few modifications, so that's something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 07:19:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12338085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparks_And_Ink/pseuds/Sparks_And_Ink
Summary: The window is open, but Derek doesn't think he minds.





	Lazy Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if i missed any tags

The window is open.

I open one eye to see the window across from our bed wide open, the man next to me sprawled across the sheets with his left leg slung over mine carelessly.

My lips curl upwards at the corners, the image reminding me of a carefree, exhausted five-year-old boy who fell asleep on the couch at his friend’s house after playing hours of Mario Kart.

He would have never done that a mere year ago.

He would have been curled up, knees pressed to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around his thin body, the moles dotting his physique showing brightly against the pale alabaster of his skin.

I don’t like to think of those times.

They plague my mind with images of shaky hands, hospital beds, and fear for the one person that made my life more than it was meant to be.

Fear used to be my best friend.

We could constantly dance to the beat of a heart monitor, waiting for the other shoe to drop, fearfully waiting until the relief of his survival turned sour and he left me alone again, but without the comfort of nurses and the constant bustle of movement that seemed to haunt the waiting room.

We don’t speak of those times now and we don’t speak of the memories even when he sinks into his own, the tension in his body noticeable as he sits in bed and listens to the ceiling fan _whirr_ constantly above his head.

I hold him in those moments, knowing that he needs time to come back to himself on his own.

 _T_ _rying to force him back into reality could traumatize him further_ , I remind myself when it happens, _Just let him ride it out and be there when he comes back._

Now, as he lays in bed with his face turned away from me and his lips slightly parted, I can see the tragic beauty in his features.

He’s thin at first glance but as he lays still I can make out the definition in his arms, the outlining of muscle in his stomach.

He’s come a long way since last year, even more so than his therapist or even I expected.

He used to make me worry, thin as a neglected, rusty rail.

Now, I think of him as a Greek column, surviving even after the brutal weather and war that beat down on it.

This man hasn’t just survived though.

He’s flourished, finding it within himself to go back to school, get a job, and come home every day to me with a smile on his face even after what’s happened to him.

I pull my eyes from his body, climbing carefully out of bed like I’m playing a Jenga game; like if I move something _just_ out of place, everything falls apart.

His leg makes a dull _thump_ as it hits the bed, sliding off my own limb.

Finally, my feet hit the cool ground, a shiver running up my body before I approach the windowsill and close the bothersome window that he insists on opening when he can’t sleep.

Even if I complain in my head, I don’t complain about it to him.

I let him have this without protest, thinking that he deserves some comfort even in the form of a window.

I make sure to lock the window before heading to the kitchen, seeing my reflection in the mirror in the hall.

I note that I should probably brush my teeth or run a comb through the wild, inky black hair brushing against my ears and forehead but it can wait, even if it means making breakfast.

The food is on the stove within minutes, my hands constantly moving to make sure nothing is getting burned.

I’m so immersed in what I’m doing that I don’t notice as he approaches, hair and shorts ruffled from sleep.

The warm skin on his fingertips press against my sides momentarily, his arms snaking around my waist.

I make a noise of approval, his cold lips tracing the spiral between my shoulderblades, my eyes drifting closed for a short moment as I relish in this perfect moment of peace.

If I can have this – him – every morning with his arms around me and his body pressed against mine, I think I can deal with an open window.


End file.
